2016 stands outside the window, framed to be seen,
stands politely ‘til the door opens
the right door
at the right time
The future comes to me quickly
Tea or coffee?
A blanket for your lap?
It’s cold outside where time weathers
as a pacific swirl over the peninsula
hooked on peaks
It rains in my house.
The fire is out.
Wet paper see-throughs to wooden table.
Drips creep across the low areas, finds them all
—both the dark and the hidden.
I’m swept up into this ungraspable moment Future comes to visit.
What we desire more than seasons or weather
is the comfort of being a stranger, more so with ourselves.
It is better not to know.
So I wait.
Wait for something that vanishes as soon as it arrives.
It’s appearance not unlike mowed lawn
—the stalk of the dandelion snapped.
It’s there. We know it.
Whether we walk on it or not.
The merciless motor hums in the distance and every so often
a breeze from the south carries the leaky-green odor of grass.
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